Formalin
by JessWho
Summary: "...I know it's a bit weird, okay a lot weird by normal standards, but I figured you're not normal. Sorry, that sounded- I mean you're better than normal," Molly stuttered, "and I wanted to get you a present, something to cheer you up and, well, Jim's eyes were just sat staring at me from my bookshelf... well they couldn't very well blink," she giggled at her morbid joke.


**Formalin**

* * *

Molly shifted her canvas bag over her shoulder, the collar of her coat caught under its thick strap.

She left St Bart's unsurprised to discover that it was darker out than she had expected, only a sprinkling of stars in the moonless sky. She began the short walk home, grabbing a free Evening Standard as she passed the tube station. Street lamps illuminating her way as she scanned the front page.

"_**Suicide Of A Genius: London A Year On.**_

_**Compelling New Evidence Suggests The Reichenbach Hero Was Not A Fraud."**_

She dropped the half-read newspaper into the dustbin outside her three storey home. The security light blinked on before she reached the steps leading up to the blue front door, she swooped up the glass bottle left by the Milkman after she had departed for work and held it awkwardly under one arm as she rummaged about in her pockets for the front door key.

Elbowing the door shut behind her and nudging a growing pile of mail that she would have to deal with tomorrow out of the way. She walked blindly down the hallway, passing her front parlour on the right and the library on the left to the open plan kitchen and living area at the back of the renovated Edwardian house.

Molly flicked on the overhead lights and left the pint of milk on her Father's old butcher's block, it was her favorite and most used piece of furniture in a predominantly modern kitchen.

Setting the water-heavy kettle on the stove she pushed off from the counter leaving her satchel on a mint green armchair, passing the man laid out on her sofa, her cat, Toby, curled up with his pink diamond nose buried under Sherlock's chin.

Molly switched on the stereo turning the dial low as the sultry sound of Wicked Game by Chris Isaak began to play.

She smiled as Sherlock hummed along, happy that in his small way he was acknowledging her existence after the silence that had greeted her as she got ready for work this morning.

He was, she could tell, grieving the anniversary of his death and the severance of his friendships with John Watson, Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and was feeling the separation more acutely today.

She unbuckled the front of her bag and pulled out a sealed glass container that she slipped onto a novelty Doctor Who coaster given to her by her Niece a few Easter's ago when David Tennant was still the Doctor. She dropped a laminated print card next to it on the cluttered coffee table as she headed to the kitchen to make herself and Sherlock tea.

When she returned she placed their hot cups of tea on the table and stacked a few old mustard coloured pathology case files on top of last week's TV Guide and a recent editions of Focus, National Geographic and The Bulletin a magazine by The Royal College of Pathologists. She turned to the sofa still kneeling on the floor and lifted Toby off of Sherlock's chest, cuddling him for a moment before releasing him to cause havoc somewhere else in the house.

Sherlock was watching her through thick lashes when she returned to his side with the laminated card and passed it to him silently. He studied it and tossed it onto his lap as he adjusted his position so that he was sat up with his back supported by the arm of the sofa and reached up to turn the lamp on.

"What's in jar?" He asked, his voice holding a hint of curiosity, as he looked closely at the fingerprint of James Moriarty taken postmortem.

Molly clutched the jar in her hands, shifting nervously, but unable to completely shut down the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. She handed the item to Sherlock waiting for his reaction.

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled. Tilting the glass container towards the light, he asked, "You've had these since the postmortem?"

"They've been in my office for the past year," Molly answered cheerfully in reference to the jar containing Moriarty's dark brown eyes.

It wasn't uncommon for pathologists to fix body parts in a solution called Formalin, the chemical process preserved tissue. She hadn't kept these for study purposes though, more as a morbid reminder that the man who they belonged to wouldn't ever be coming back, the rest of him incinerated.

Sherlock continued to stare at the eyes of a man that had destroyed everything he had known as Molly ramble on.

"…I know it's a bit weird, okay a lot weird by normal standards, but I figured you're not normal. Sorry, that sounded- I mean you're better than normal," Molly stuttered, "and I wanted to get you a present, something to cheer you up and, well, Jim's eyes were just sat staring at me from my bookshelf… well they couldn't very well blink," she giggled at her morbid joke.

Sherlock spared her a smirk. "Ten percent?" He asked shaking the jar so that Moriarty's eyes danced around in the clear liquid solution.

She stared blankly at him for a moment and then with a pleased nod said, "Yes, yes, ten percent Formaldehyde. I would have preserved his brain instead, but, well, he made a mess of that, didn't he?"

"Quite," he agreed.

"You're tea is getting cold," Molly remarked as she stood and began unbuttoning her coat. She looked down when Sherlock caught her wrist, her eyes darkening as he rose from the sofa and towered over her, his gloss brown hair a curly mess.

"Thank you," Sherlock said with sincerity, leaning in until his warm breath could be felt against her cheek. He pressed his lips to her powdered skin before coaxing her to rest against his chest and nestling his chin on top of her head.

"Sherlock," Molly mumbled against the lapel of his dressing gown, "I smell like decomposed bodies."

"You do a bit," his reply rumbled deep in his chest.

Molly sighed, comforted by the weight of Sherlock's hands on her lower-back as he held her in place. "I'm going to have a bath."

"I wouldn't use the ensuite, I'm running an experiment," he warned as he let her go.

"Oh, Sherlock. Again?" Molly rubbed her temples. "Couldn't you use the one in the guestroom?"

"The lighting is better in our ensuite, less strain on the eyes when I'm studying the growth of hair follicles after death," he remarked, picking up their hot drinks and pressing hers into her empty hands.

"I'm taking that head back to the morgue first thing Monday morning; it was bad enough when you put it in the vegetable draw," Molly poised her ultimatum and took a sip of tea, waiting for an outburst.

Sherlock shuffled closer, "Can't I keep it until Tuesday? Please." He ran his fingers slowly through his soft brown hair and stared intensely at her as though he might eat her and knowing she would let him.

"I suppose, but only if it doesn't smell," Molly relented. Glad at least to have a rough estimation of how long Sherlock might stay before he ran off to further untangle Moriarty's web.

* * *

Poem: **The Dead Consulting Detective.**

You fixed my heart in Formalin,

preserved and perfect on your bookshelf.

You prefer the uninterrupted silence

to the companionable beat.

And though I miss its passionate song

you, my Pathologist, assure me

I am better off without."

* * *

_A/N: Started reading Patricia Cornwell's Scarpetta series and in one Kay; The kickass Pathologist, takes a sample of skin and preserves it in Formalin... it burrowed itself deep in my brain, knowing at some point I might want it and then boom! What else would sweet little Molly give a boy she likes, and what would a boy like Sherlock love?_

_A/N-Poem: Molly's a bit quirky - "We all do silly things" - I like to think she would do something as sentimental and creepy as keeping an ex's heart. Sherlock wouldn't mind, he has the eyes after all, and he did have a friend/enemies skull... the collecting of body part as keepsakes is something he could hardly disapprove of._


End file.
